


Picture Perfect

by kingsqueensroyalty



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abusive Dursley Family (Harry Potter), Character Death, Dark Harry, Dark Harry Potter, Gen, Insane Harry, Insane Harry Potter, Murder, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:20:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25308886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingsqueensroyalty/pseuds/kingsqueensroyalty
Summary: Harry Potter had grown up abused and hidden away by the Dursley's because he ruined their normality.Harry has had enough. He'll make the Dursley's into a picture perfect family.
Relationships: Petunia Evans Dursley/Vernon Dursley
Comments: 4
Kudos: 129





	Picture Perfect

**Author's Note:**

> Um.. we've all thought about murdering the Dursley's at one point right? 
> 
> I own nothing of Harry Potter other than his murderous tendencies.

They were the worst kind of people, hardly deserving of mercy. 

So, despite it all, I couldn’t bring myself to feel pity. They abused me for years, breaking me until all that remained was a shell. Pretty enough on the outside not to warrant concern. However, on the inside, I was hollow and empty. Although, when I thought of how much I hated them, a shadow would fill me. It was murky and unyielding, everyday giving me a purpose.

Until finally, the shell cracked and the dark shade residing in the shell slipped out. 

It was a beautiful day, calm and quiet, as if the very world paused in anticipation. I know it didn’t and in some ways I’m glad, my ‘family’ didn’t deserve that kind of recognition. To be special, something more than the utterly pathetic scum they made themselves as they tainted their souls repeatedly. Harming an innocent child for years, making him bitter to all the wonders life had to offer. Leaving him wallowing in anger and hatred, turning that child… so full of hope, into what I was.

When I arrived at the front door to the house that taunted me, I paused. Letting myself acknowledge what was about to happen and with it giving myself a chance to back out; I didn’t. 

I stood there as a mask of indifference slid onto my face, bending down to pick up the spare key from under the plant pot, I allowed myself a moment of weakness. Then, as soon as it came, it was gone. 

The plain wooden door opened with a creek, my footsteps echoed, and the silence of the house rang in my years. The moonlight pooled in through the bay window, painting patches of light and darkness across the stairs. The light sound of my knife carving a thin trail through the non-existent dust on the banister, gently ghosting across the cool, painted surface. Every moment brought a feeling of calm and eerie acceptance. 

With a final step I was upstairs, staring down the hall at a door which led to a bedroom, within which my aunt and uncle slept. Travelling in the shadows that bathed the hall, I seeped closer and closer to the edge of sanity and with a click the door was open. Two human shaped figures lay entangled on the sheets, one a whale of a man and the other a horse of a woman. 

Unseeing, I stood over them. My blade glinted dangerously, a silent swish of my hand and warm blood pooled around the woman’s throat painting the white sheets a beautiful scarlet. Another soft flick and the man’s blood joined the pool, the ruby and scarlet mixing into a paint worthy of masters. Without a glance, I slipped back into the hallway.

My cousin was a boy who sadly followed in the muddy, soiled footsteps of his father. A bully and a waste of space. 

Hardly hesitating, my stained blade slid through the skin of his neck, there was little resistance. In all my plans leading up to this moment, when I killed them, I imagined a feeling of euphoria or victory but there was none. Just frustration, it was all too simple, calm and meaningless. I needed chaos, to reap destruction, to destroy the illusion of normalcy they had created.

By the feet, I dragged the large body across the hallway, taking no care as he suffered a few injuries along the way. It left marks of red on the light wooden floor. The bodies were propped up on the bed. Their dead eyes opened, their pale lips pulled into smiles, as if they were posing for one of the obnoxious photos on their mantel piece.

‘This is one for the Christmas cards', I thought and with a flash that illuminated their sickly grey skin and click, it was safe. Giving me the ability to have that moment forever, to have in my hand for eternity. It still wasn’t enough. I lifted my aunt by her pale throat, the blood painted my fingers a very poetic shade of red.

At that moment I regressed to my childhood, back when I was starved of affection and desperate for approval. When I was 6 years old I had painted a picture titled, 'my family'. It had my aunt, uncle and cousin all in a line and me shoved in the middle. Wide smiles filled all our faces but instead of taping the image to the fridge and giving me a pat on the back, it had been ripped, stamped on and I had been beaten so violently I didn’t wake up for a week. It was then that I learned, they may be my blood, but they’d never be my family, not in this life.

Simple and brilliant, the only way to describe the idea I had. In the ‘next life’, we could be a family. 

I used my fingers, sticky and warm from being dipped in their blood. I redrew that innocent image, childlike in its simplicity. 'My Family', the title dripped down the bedroom wall, running closer and closer to the floor.

It was only fair after all, they were my family in blood, so their blood would be my family. 

There I sat, surrounded by carnage and destruction, finally content. A crazed, lopsided smile made its way onto my face. 

Yes, it was a picture-perfect family.

Getting up and leaving in a daze was (despite the fact that I can hardly remember it now) one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. 

The warm contentment that remained after my tormentors were ruined, never left me. If anything it only tripled when I saw the pathetic inhabitants of the street mourning their death. 

They were weak, they couldn’t understand. The fact they were dead had nothing to do with it. 

The satisfaction came from the understanding that their humiliation, their worst fear was captured quite prettily, if I do say so myself, in my jean pocket.


End file.
